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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139307">Something to Talk About</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeorgeEmerson/pseuds/GeorgeEmerson'>GeorgeEmerson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tuesday Mooney Talks to Ghosts - Kate Racculia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1995, Blasphemy, Edgar Allen Poe, Friendship, Gen, High School, Hot Topic, Moldy Grain, Teen Talk Live</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:28:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeorgeEmerson/pseuds/GeorgeEmerson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuesday wasn't sure who to blame for Teen Talk Live. The posters scotch-taped around the school advertised it as “Friends, Food, and Fun After School! Wicked!” In reality, it was 25 minutes of watching VHS tapes of B-list celebrities talk about “Your Changing Body” or “Sticky Handed and Down Hearted: What to do if YOU can't Stop Shoplifting” followed by 25 minutes of eating cheese pizza squares while FM radio blasted from a boom box.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Yuletide 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Something to Talk About</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/gifts">likeadeuce</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Salem, Massachusetts. 1995.</i>
  </p>
</div><p>Tuesday slumped into a blue plastic chair – the closest to the exit that she could find – and sighed.</p>
<p>The cafetorium stunk. To be fair, it wasn't the best smelling part of the school on a regular day – Abby called its slightly nauseating combination of dirty mop water and soggy cheesesteak “eau de vomitous.” But this wasn't a regular day; this was 7 PM on the third Friday of the month. 7 PM on the third Friday of the month meant Teen Talk Live. And Teen Talk Live meant Tuesday, as well as 147 of her classmates, sweating from embarrassment together in the enclosed space.<br/>
</p>
<p>The bodily odors did not improve the smell. </p>
<p>Tuesday wasn't sure who to blame for Teen Talk Live. The posters scotch-taped around the school advertised it as “Friends, Food, and Fun After School! Wicked!” In reality, it was 25 minutes of watching VHS tapes of B-list celebrities talk about “Your Changing Body” or “Sticky Handed and Down Hearted: What to do if YOU can't Stop Shoplifting” followed by 25 minutes of eating cheese pizza squares while FM radio blasted from a boom box. </p>
<p>It was excruciating. And, at least according to Tuesday's parents, mandatory. Which made no sense, of course – how exactly, she'd asked her mother, was watching Aileen Quinn talk about good menstrual hygiene in a dark room full of mortified, sullen teenagers helping her achieve her parents' dream of becoming an independent free spirit with a deep understanding of the healing power of geodes? (“Aileen Quinn is a <i>national treasure</i>, honey,” her mother had responded disappointedly.)</p>
<p>Through careful observation, Tuesday had narrowed responsibility for Teen Talk Live down to two suspects. The most likely was Mr. Colangelo – their overly-earnest vice-principal who called his office The Peach Pit, gave awkward high-fives instead of hand shakes, and had perpetually bloodshot eyes. (“He's basically ensuring none of us ever go in there by calling his office that,” Abby had once said dismissively, picking a long red hair off the Candyman t-shirt she'd grabbed for 40% off at Hot Topic. “Half the school doesn't give a shit about that show and the half that does wouldn't be caught dead voluntarily talking to a school employee.”)</p>
<p>The other alternative was Ms. Lutkis. Ms. Lutkis taught biology. At least Tuesday supposed you could call it teaching. To her, it looked at lot more like Ms. Lutkis – who sported bleached blonde bangs frozen high in a dramatic wave above her forehead, long Lisa Frank pink nails, the tightest denim skirts and a perpetual look of blank disinterest – was merely biding her time between cigarettes breaks by dissecting frogs. Tuesday had memorized cell structures and liver functions for Ms. Lutkis’s final exam, but what she knew she'd remember most from the class was the – frankly appalling – sight of Ms. Lutkis, bent over the lab table Tuesday shared with Abby, chewing gum while she calmly picked through amphibian intestines with the glossy tip of an acrylic nail. </p>
<p>Given her give-a-damn demeanor, it was definitely counter-intuitive that Ms. Lutkis would be the culprit behind Teen Talk Live. Still, Tuesday <i>had</i> caught a glimpse of stacked video tapes in Ms. Lutkis's classroom closet once – and one of those bad boys <i>had</i> been One Too Many, which was a Teen Talk Live go-to, although no one was sure whether that was because the school was just <i>that</i> anti-drunk driving (understandable) or because the kids were less likely to bitch if they at least had Val Kilmer and Michelle Pfeiffer to stare at while they were being held in a smelly cafetorium against their will (also understandable).<br/>
</p>
<p>Ugh. Tuesday slumped harder into the chair and sighed again. Where the hell was Abby, anyway? Tuesday had one friend in this school and she really needed her to survive the next 50 minutes. </p>
<p>She scanned the large room. Mr. Colangelo hovered by the television on it's rolling metal stand, while a bunch of lacrosse players sprawled languidly in the chairs in front of him — probably because that was the closest access point to the post-After School Special pizza. The AP art kids sitting near them looked mutinous and one of them raised a blue paint-stained middle finger in a hostile salute towards... someone. Tuesday couldn't quite see who, exactly, but had a pretty good idea it was the guy who complained to the principal about Amanda Forshner's enormous oil pastel homages to Blind Melon taking up all the studio space. Around the edges of the room, kids loitered in groups of 3s or 4s and 5s. Over in the far corner, two sophomore girls wearing floral babydoll dresses over ripped, baggy jeans sat cross-legged on the floor, doubled over in giddy laughter at some inside joke. And by them, huddled aggressively in a protective circle, were the popular girls: Katie, Katie, Katy, Kaitlyn, Caitlin, and Kate. Oh, and Doreen. </p>
<p>No Abby anywhere, Tuesday resignedly acknowledged. Abby was incapable of going unnoticed. She had that red hair – like, <i>red</i> red hair, like Chucky red, like Pennywise the Clown red, like Angela Chase red – that fell around her face in riotous, unruly curls. </p>
<p>“Alright, find a seat!,” hollered Mr. Colangelo in a loud voice. One of the babydoll dress girls jumped, startled, sending her friend back into fits of giggles. “We're going to get started in T-minus 5 minutes! This is gonna be a good one, folks,” he continued, excitedly waiving a glossy VHS tape in the air. “Bonnie Raitt has 'Something to Talk About!'” </p>
<p>The art kids snickered. Doreen clutched at her tiny plaid skirt in excitement and shrieked something at the Katies about meeting Dennis Quaid at a Celtics game once. “Oh,” replied one of them flatly, examining a pristine Birkenstock. “My dad knows Coolio.” </p>
<p>Tuesday was deep into an eye-roll when she felt a short, sharp tug at the back of her head. </p>
<p>“Psst, Tues!” </p>
<p><i>Finally</i>. Looking over her shoulder with a small grin, she saw Abby hovering in a crouch behind her with a lock of Tuesday's long, dark hair wrapped around her fingers. Abby let go and crooked a finger, beckoning her. The overhead lights reflected off her chipped black nail polish.</p>
<p>“Hey!” Tuesday said, relieved. “I thought maybe you weren't coming. In which case,” she lowered her voice to a mock serious tone, “you really would have been Abby Cadaver once I got my hands on you.” </p>
<p>Abby smirked. “As if. We both know I’m deceptively strong and cunning. Come on!,” she hissed. “Before Colangelo sees!” </p>
<p>Tuesday glanced back towards the front of the room. Kids were reluctantly migrating towards open chairs, while Mr. Colangelo fussily punched buttons on the VCR. The TV screen flickered with static. From close by, one of the lacrosse players was saying “OUTPUT CABLE, MR. COL” in an increasingly loud, bored voice. </p>
<p>“Come on,” Abby urged again. “I need to tell you something.”</p>
<p>Tuesday couldn't resist a mystery and she especially couldn't resist a mystery when Abby was involved. She stood up quickly, just as she heard the TV finally start to play. “Hello,” a husky voice began. “I'm Bonnie Raitt...” </p>
<p>Tuesday grabbed Abby's hand and they ran, hunched over, quietly out the door – only the squelching of the soles of their Doc Martens on the linoleum gave them away. Together, they turned the corner. Tuesday let Abby led her down the main hallway, past the senior lockers and the darkened office, past the first floor bathrooms and out-of-order water fountain, and into an unlocked classroom. </p>
<p>Abby flipped the light switch, illuminating rows of neutral colored chairs with attached trays. Stained off-white tiles patterned with rows and rows of tiny dots marched across the ceiling, from which long, skinny fluorescent lights hung. Under the black board was a large, battered wooden desk adorned with ball-point pens and scribbled-up desk calendar. An enormous map was pinned to one wall, while a Teen Talk Live flyer was taped to another. </p>
<p>Abby dropped Tuesday's hand, panting a little, and threw down the beat-up dark green Jansport she was carrying. It thudded heavily.</p>
<p>Leaning over the desk, Abby studied the calendar. “Mr. Levin,” she said finally. “World history, I think.” As Tuesday watched, she flipped through the months until she found a Friday the 13th and wrote “JASON IS MY SON AND TODAY IS HIS BIRTHDAY” on it in large, wobbly letters. Tuesday snickered a bit and Abby glanced up at her with her wide smile.   </p>
<p>“So,” Tuesday’s gaze wandered around the room. “What’s going…” But before she could finish the question, Abby was beckoning to her again.<br/>
</p>
<p>“Come sit down, I have a plan.”</p>
<p>They slumped down together to sit on the chilly floor, settling their backs against Mr. Levin’s desk. The tube lights hummed and crackled overhead. Abby grabbed her backpack by the frayed, limp loop at its top and dragged it over to them. She stuck a hand in and started rummaging, as Tuesday watched with interest. </p>
<p>Abby’s cutoff jean shorts hung loosely off her narrow hips, nearly shapeless from so many trips through the washing machine. A few inches above her knees, clumpy, tangled bunches of errant threads dangled down from the shorts where Abby had whacked them off with kitchen shears. Black, ripped fishnets encased the rest of Abby’s pale legs — right down to her dingy boots. </p>
<p>She’d half-heartedly tucked in an oversized black t-shirt reading “Disgruntled Employee of the Month” — another Hot Topic sale rack score, Tuesday knew — and sported a super shiny, obviously fake black diamond ring on one finger. The whole thing was topped off by a blood red velvet ribbon tied prettily around her neck. Abby’s clothes projected her desired aesthetic — Tuesday called it “Elvira-meets-Siousixe Sioux”. But, as always, the look was a little incongruous with Abby’s open, freckled face and uncontrollable bright hair. </p>
<p>“It’s picnic time!” Abby grinned. “That’s what going on.” She pulled out the two familiar, stubby skull-shaped candles they always placed on each side of Abby’s ouija board, followed by a neon green lighter. </p>
<p>Tuesday picked up the skulls, turning them over in her hands a bit. “Poor Doctor Lecter,” she said, poking the one with a collapsed eye socket, which had been filled in with melted wax and from which the tiny black candle wick now extended creepily. “He’s really not holding up as well as Clarice.” </p>
<p>“He needs to eat more leafy greens,” Abby grunted as she thrust her arm back into the bag and came up with a rumpled black tablecloth, decorated with Wite-Out pentagrams, skulls, and UFOs. She laid out the tablecloth on the floor right in front of the large desk. “Okay! Get the lights, Tues.” </p>
<p>Tuesday hopped up — as easily as any nearly 6 foot tall teenager wearing a constricting Wednesday Addams dress with a billion small buttons could hop up from the floor — and flicked the switch by the classroom door.</p>
<p>Standing in the near complete-darkness, Tuesday heard the tiny metallic grind of the lighter as Abby lit it – and then touched the flame to Lecter and Clarice. She set them down parallel to one another on the tablecloth where they cast tiny, sputtering pools of pale light – just bright enough for Tuesday to make her way back across the room. As Tuesday lowered herself into a sitting position across the tablecloth from Abby, Abby pulled out an enormous bag of salt-and-vinegar Lays and laid it between the candles. Two bottles of Mountain Dew followed. And, finally, some squashed Oreos and an opened packet of Hostess cupcakes.</p>
<p>“I tried to bring the bottle of Vodkat,” Abby confided a little sadly. “But I couldn’t get it past my dad.”</p>
<p>“Dude,” said Tuesday. Gulping down junk food with Abby in a dark, cold classroom was so far superior to Bonnie Raitt and soggy square pizza that Tuesday’s normal stoicism cracked and Tuesday gave a huge smile. “Abby, this is fucking <i>awesome</i>. I knew letting you force me to be you best friend all those years back would pay off some day,” she teased. “I could hug you.”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing,” Abby replied, although she sounded secretly pleased. “Bon appetit! What do you want first?” She grabbed the chips with both hands, preparing to wrench the sealed top apart. “Chips? Partially eaten cupcake?”</p>
<p>“Wait!” Tuesday batted the bag out of her hands. “Where are your manners, Abs? We have to say grace.” </p>
<p>“Shit, right.” In the near complete darkness of the room, both girls extended their hands, intertwining their fingers and pressing palms together. Tuesday felt the pads of her fingers come to rest against Abby’s boney knuckles, felt the thin skin on the back of her hands. “Ready?”</p>
<p>Tuesday nodded and began. “Our Father,” she intoned solemnly, “who art buried in Baltimore, hallowed be thy name.”</p>
<p>Abby squeezed her hands gently and picked up the prayer. “Give us this day your stories about Darkness and Decay and the Red Death…”</p>
<p>“And forgive us our Tell-Tale Hearts,” Tuesday continued.  </p>
<p>“As we have forgiven our –” Abby faltered. “I can’t remember what it is,” she hissed in a low voice to Tuesday. The flame perched atop Clarice’s cranium flickered.<br/>
</p>
<p>Tuesday laughed. “Just make something up, you ingrate,” she whispered back. “I can’t believe you don’t have the holy text memorized, Abs, you’ll never get to meet the Sacred Raven at this rate!” </p>
<p>“Okay, okay,” Abby squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. “As we have forgiven… the Spanish Inquisition,” she finally continued loudly. Tuesday snorted. “Okay, now together,” Abby commanded her. </p>
<p>“Lead us not into the Pit with the Pendulum,” the girls finished in unison. “But deliver us from clowns buried alive in walls. Amen.”</p>
<p>Thirty minutes later, Tuesday wiped greasy salt-and-vinegar hands unceremoniously down the sides of her dress while Abby, laying on her back in the near pitch-black classroom, toyed with the velvet bow around her neck. She was talking about moldy bread. And, even though this <i>was</i> one of their favorite topics, Tuesday was only half-listening truth-be-told. Mentally, she’d begun retracing the step of their conversation – because something was... off. </p>
<p>After the big picnic reveal, their conversation had proceeded along a normal (for them) path. Abby had started by updating Tuesday on her plans for the high-necked velvet cape she was making to complete her Grand High Witch costume. </p>
<p>This had morphed into a game of Six Degrees of Anjelica Houston. <i>“Keanu, of course,”</i> Abby had instructed – and swigged contemplatively on a 2 Liter of Mountain Dew while Tuesday rolodexed old copies of Entertainment Weekly in her mind until, finally, she’d churned out a solution:</p>
<p>
  <i>“Anjelica to Christina Ricca.” (“Well, duh,” Abby remarked. “And then?”)</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Christina to Cher.” (“Shoop shoop. And then?”)</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Cher to Michelle Pfeiffer.” (“Wait, why didn’t you just use Winona before?”)</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Michelle to Rex Manning.” (“Tuesday, you <i>know</i> that’s not his real na… alright, alright, I’ll be quiet. I just… no, I have to say one more thing! I want you to know you’ve brought, like, a pox onto both our houses by including Grease 2 in this when you didn’t need to. And just for Rex Manning. Really, Tues.”)</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Rex Manning to Jeff Daniels.” (“We BOTH know you have not seen that movie.”)</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Jeff to Keanu!”</i>
</p>
<p>Keanu had led to a brief discussion and, ultimately, very giggly recreation of the “Rush, Rush” music video – which had culminated in a significantly more serious attempt to decipher the imagery in Nirvana’s Heart Shaped Box. And, Tuesday concluded, this was when the conversation had taken a sharp left turn into moldy bread territory – and, she was sure she’d seen it, a slightly frantic and worried look in Abby’s eyes. </p>
<p>Tuesday had said… something, she wasn’t sure precisely what, but something about how babies dangling from trees was like the kind of creepy, messed up mental image you got at 5 AM after staying up all night eating candy corn and watching Eraserhead. Abby had agreed and, just like Tuesday knew she would, brought up The Crucible. </p>
<p><i>“Maybe Kurt wasn’t, like, a genius,”</i> Abby had mused, cramming the last fraction of a cupcake into her mouth and licking chocolate-streaked fingers. <i>“Maybe he just, like, kept a secret stash of moldy grain around when he needed inspiration. You know, to give himself hallucinations. Like what happened to those girls in The Crucib…”</i></p>
<p>Tuesday had started to laugh. <i>“You are so obsessed with this idea.”</i> She’d grabbed the other soda bottle and took a drink. <i>“No one knows if that’s what actually happened though, Abs, that’s what Mrs. Markell told us last year in English. Also, don’t you think he would’ve just taken, you know, regular drugs? Like, how much extra work is it to buy grain, make it moldy, and then force yourself to eat it when you could just…”</i></p>
<p><i>“Don’t pretend you weren’t there when we contacted her!”</i> Abby had interrupted indignantly, as she stretched out along the cool, linoleum tile floor. <i>“Goody Cartwright told us that’s what happened.”</i></p>
<p>Tuesday had playfully tossed the wadded up, empty chip bag at her. <i>“Well, if the Ouija board says it, it must be true.”</i> </p>
<p>And <b>that</b> was when she’d seen it. She could replay it now in her mind clearly; the crumpled, shiny wad landing lightly on Abby’s midriff and Abby’s hand reaching out to automatically swat it away. And at the same time, Abby’s normally alert, open expression had closed off abruptly – like a shade being drawn against the warm late afternoon sun. </p>
<p>“Abby,” Tuesday said loudly, suddenly, interrupting Abby mid-sentence. “You said you needed to tell me something. Like, when you first came up to me at Teen Talk Live today. Was it about ghosts or spirits or something?”</p>
<p>Abby blinked. The hand that had been tugging at her velvet bow stilled. “Yeah, I guess.” She sounded uncomfortable, which was never an emotion Tuesday previously associated with her. </p>
<p>“So, what is it?”</p>
<p>“What is what?” Abby stalled. She pushed herself up to a sitting position and wrapped her arms defensively around her legs, pulling them into herself a bit. </p>
<p>“Oh, come on, Abs. You know what I mean. You said you needed to tell me something. So tell me.”</p>
<p>“Okay. Fine. I… Okay. This is weird but. Something bad is going to happen to me,” blurted Abby, finally, keeping her eyes downcast. </p>
<p>Tuesday was taken aback. “What are you talking about? That’s crazy.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I just, I know something bad is going to happen to me. I don’t know, like, when or where or why or how. I just know it is.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Tuesday asked, confused. “Like, how you do know? Did someone threaten you?”</p>
<p>“No,” Abby waved her hand, a little despairingly. “No, I’m not getting, like, cut-up newspaper notes telling me to drop $50,000 in the dumpster behind Dunkin Donuts or anything.” She considered for a minute. “I kinda wish I was,” she continued, almost sadly. </p>
<p>“Abby.” Tuesday was getting frustrated. “<i>What’s going on?</i>” She was fighting the urge to stand up, turn on all the lights, kick the picnic paraphernalia to the side and just interrogate Abby until she got straight answers. Her ability to get information like that – it wasn’t a skill Tuesday was always proud of, but it was useful sometimes. </p>
<p>“They’ve been telling me.” Abby gestured vaguely, making a circle in the darkness with one hand. Clarice and Lecter’s twin flames glinted off the cut-edges of the giant plastic stone in her ring. “Like, every night. They tell me.”</p>
<p>Finally, Tuesday understood. “Ghosts,” she said in a quieter voice. </p>
<p>“Yeah.” Abby’s voice dropped to above barely a whisper. “One of them said, um, it said that this is how I die.”</p>
<p>“Holy shit.” Tuesday was suddenly outraged on Abby’s behalf, self-righteously pissed off at whatever maybe-real maybe-not unseen specter had freaked out her friend so damn much. “Fuck that ghost. What an incorporeal asshole. I wish you’d brought your board, we could have called it down and, and… and vanquished it or something. Forced it to haunt Doreen or one of the Katies or something.”</p>
<p>Abby snorted, still a little wanly – but Tuesday could see her face shift a little, see her brow unfurrow a bit. “That’s a good idea. Mess with me, be forced to spend the next 80 years watching a Katie pretend to make out with Luke Perry while she listens to that Another Night song over and over again.”</p>
<p>Before Tuesday could respond, Abby starting running her tongue obscenely over the back of her hand, smacking and wet. “Oh, Luke,” she murmured, batting her eyeslashes. “Luke, I’ll talk talk…” More smacking and glistening saliva. “I’ll talk to you in the night, in my dreams, of love so true.”</p>
<p>“Oh my god, you’re out of your mind, I love you,” Tuesday said intently, suddenly feeling it with everyone bone in her body – and wishing she could transmit it to Abby, somehow cover Abby’s body in it like a pair of ratty, warm flannel pjs. “You’ll be okay.” She grabbed Abby’s damp, slippery hand, pulled it towards her, holding it in hers. “I know it. Also, that was <i>so gnarly</i>.” </p>
<p>They were both doubled over, gasping for breath between laughs, when the lights suddenly came on. Both girls shaded their eyes on reflex, blinded by the intrusive fluorescent beams that seemed to be boring into their skulls. </p>
<p>“Girls,” came a flat, uninterested female voice from the general direction of the door. Squinting, Tuesday made out a hazy, curvy shape in acid-washed denim. Ms. Lutkis. <i>Crap,</i> she thought. “What is the explanation for this?”</p>
<p>Tuesday and Abby exchanged glances. </p>
<p>“Well…” started Tuesday. She tried to surreptitiously pinch out the candles. The only way to make unauthorized use of a classroom worse was if Ms. Lutkis thought they might be trying to burn it down.  </p>
<p>“We were planning,” Abby added. “For school.”</p>
<p>“For Teen Talk Live,” Tuesday improvised. “We, um, we were really inspired by Bonnie’s message. And we want to, like, help.”</p>
<p>“By sharing a message of our own!” Abby finished, quickly shoving Clarice, Lecter, the tablecloth, and a half empty soda bottle into her backpack. Tuesday stared at her. She had been about to suggest that they’d organize the tape closet or something. Be kind and rewind, etc., not offer themselves up to public humiliation.</p>
<p>“I see,” drawled Ms. Lutkis, who clearly neither believed this nor cared that it was a complete, blatant lie. She patted her bangs and checked her watch. “Well, girls, in that case, I look forward to seeing what you’ve come up with. I’ll let Mr. Colangelo know that we won’t be needing the VCR next month since two of our best and brightest will be doing a very special live presentation. You know, when he and I started Teen Talk Live--” Tuesday gasped a little inwardly, she’d never considered <i>this</i> option – “we were hoping to engage you students and it appears that we have.”</p>
<p>The girls nodded, mutely.</p>
<p>“Now, clean up all this stuff and get out.”</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>
  <b>Abby Hobbes and Tuesday Mooney’s Teen Talk Live Curriculum: Useful Survival Tips for Modern Teens:</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>1.	How to Survive a Zombie Attack<br/>
2.	What to do When Chased by a Demon Car<br/>
3.	My Pet Died and I Was Sad but Now It’s Back and Evil<br/>
4.	Summer Camp Massacre Avoidance Tactics<br/>
5.	How to Know if You’re the Dead One: Tricks and Tips from Christopher Pike’s “Remember Me”<br/>
6.	Understanding and Learning to Love Puberty, featuring Leatherface</b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Yuletide! This was enormously fun to write &amp; I hope it’s even half as much fun to read. I wanted so much more of young Tuesday &amp; Abby in the book and hope I’ve delivered a bit of that for you. xx</p></blockquote></div></div>
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